


another search for something holy

by objectlesson



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Face-Fucking, Feminization?? Sort of?, Finger Sucking, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29992938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Daniel smiles a watery smile, and they clink bottles before downing what’s left in them, fingers bumping together in a way that Johnny notices. It’s dumb—he spars with Daniel like three times a week for instructional purposes, he touches him all the time, knows the way his deceptively soft, padded torso gives beneath the impact of his own fists, the way Daniel’sbonesare shaped, the way his adrenaline sweat stinks. But it feels different with no teenagers watching. Different when it's late and dark and they’re both drinking and neither of them are going home to their empty bedrooms just yet. Johnny coughs down his last warm mouthful of beer, wincing, and as he blinks his eyes open he finds Daniel’s gaze fixed on him, flickering and pitch-black like fucking tar pits. It makes his stomach swoop.Or, some arrangements end, and other kick into motion.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 36
Kudos: 115





	another search for something holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HurdyGurdy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurdyGurdy/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEN!! I know I usually write you Napollya fic as a gift but ever since Arm and Hammer was outed as a cannibal creep I don't really want to think about him, so I hope some washed up nasty dad-bod karate rivals will cut it for you. I was ambitious and wanted this to have lactation kink in it, but as you'll see I chickened out halfway through on that front. There's at least plenty of absolute filth. I love you and hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it. 
> 
> For the rest of you----uh, some use of the f-slur because were in Johnny Lawrence's head and you know how that vacation destination is. Enjoy!

It’s a hazy, burnt-orange dusk outside and as much Johnny hates to admit it, Daniel’s collection of old cars looks so fucking pretty in the amber glow. He admires their glittering paint jobs as subtly as he can from where he’s sitting on the deck, which is probably sanded and stained with child-labor because if he’s learned anything from teaming up with Larusso, it’s that the guy thinks child-labor and Karate technique go hand in hand. And _Johnny_ is supposed to be the asshole between the two of them. It’s unbelievable. 

The echo of Daniel’s footsteps resounds behind him, and he schools his accidental smile, tearing his gaze away from the smooth hoods and dark windows. “You can touch them, if you want,” Daniel says, nudging the back of Johnny’s shoulder with a cold bottle of beer. “I’ll even let you sit in one if you’re good.” 

“Fuck you, man. You don’t deserve such cherry rides if you’re not _driving_ them,” Johnny says with no real venom. They fuck with each other still, toss insults and spar a little too rough—but it’s _different_ , now that they’re united against a common enemy. Johnny doesn’t mean half the shit he says anymore, he just goes through the motions to save face because it's easier than admitting they’re sort of friends. In fact, he’s realizing he _never_ really meant any of it—the rage he harbored for Larusso was always clumsy, misplaced. Maybe it wasn’t even rage at all. 

He twists around to take the beer, thinking it’s sort of nice that Daniel keeps Coors Banquet for him in the Dojo’s mini fridge so they can drink together after class ends and the kids go home. It’s a weird olive branch, but Johnny knows shit between them is _always_ gonna be weird. There’s no hope for a normal, untroubled partnership with the guy who stole your high school girlfriend and beat you with an illegal kick in a Karate tournament thirty five years ago. Especially when he’s _also_ the guy who saw your sensei almost choke you to death in a parking lot after said tournament. The guy who _also_ almost killed that same Sensei in front of you a month ago, because you silently gave him the go ahead because if anyone knew the bastard deserved it, it was Daniel. Johnny used to think Daniel ruined his life, but now he knows that Kreese did. Daniel was just there to watch it happen, and that’s not the sort of thing you come back to _normal_ after. They’re doomed to be fucked up, and messy, and awkward together. Johnny’s just like—ok with it now. 

Daniel lowers himself down beside Johnny on the deck, and their arms brush. “I drive them sometimes,” he argues, in that annoying, Jersey-thick voice he uses whenever he feels defensive. He likes to pretend he's more _evolved,_ or something, but he always rises to the challenge, the little bitch. Johnny smiles against his beer bottle, comforted by Daniel’s predictability. 

The sun goes down and they drink together quietly, the sound of distant traffic and the chirp of cicadas and their slow, measured swallows the only sounds in the night. “You know, this stuff isn’t bad,” Daniel says eventually, draining his bottle before setting it down between their bodies with a clink. “Cheap, but decent. 

Johnny grins. “Maybe you have _some_ taste,” he says. “Still think these cars are too good for you.” 

And that time, Daniel just shrugs, like maybe, he’s agreeing he’s got it better than he deserves. 

The cicadas sing and they talk about their students, who’s improving and who needs more work, and when that starts to feel like a metaphor for something else, they default to talking about the past, like they always do. Sometimes Johnny thinks this is all he is—a thirty five year old story told over and over again, repeated on an endless loop in some pathetic attempt to justify it to the one guy who was _there_ when it happened. The only nice thing about it is that Daniel seems to have the same compulsion: They tell their side of the story to each other, over and over again, because the rest of the world has gotten tired of heating it. It’s not _important_ to anyone but them at this point, so, maybe it's a good thing. That they have each other to dump on, time and time again, like a hundred empty beer bottles stacked and clicking together, rustling beneath a layer of dust. 

They crack open a third round as the temperature steadily drops, until it's too chilly to sit outside in their sweaty work out clothes anymore. They end up wandering back to the dojo, and Johnny wonders why Daniel doesn’t go home—he’s got a wife and kids, after all. Johnny doesn’t have shit waiting for him except _more_ Coors Banquet and his new best friend, some website called PornHub which is like, an entire fucking adult video store but free. It’s amazing. He’s not itching to get back to his hand and his bed, though, because whether or not he’d ever admit it out loud, he’s lonely, and company feels good. Even if it’s Daniel Larusso’s company. 

“Isn’t Amanda waiting for you?” he eventually asks, the rim of his bottle pressed to his lower lip as he studies all the dorky, try-hard Japanese shit on the walls of the Dojo before his gaze inevitably slips back to Larusso and his dark eyes, his sweat-messy hair. Sometimes, if Johnny’s had enough to drink and Daniel’s wearing his headband, Johnny will squint and realize Daniel doesn't look that different from the way he looked in 85. More filled out, less scrawny, a little older—but not _that_ much older. It makes Johnny ache for how many years he wasted in the bottom of a bottle, wishing he were dead. 

“Amanda? Nah, no. She’s, uh, on a date,” Daniel explains with a wry smile, eyebrows lifting in a _dare you to ask me about it_ kind of way. 

It hits Johnny sudden and stomach turning, like one tequila shot too many. His cheeks burn, and he chokes on his beer, wondering what he’s supposed to say to that. He doesn’t want to take bait Larusso’s laid down for him; there’s something undignified about it. But at the same time— _damn._ He's fucking curious about the bomb he just dropped, so, what the hell. Johnny lifts his brows and ventures., “Fuck, are you guys, uh. Separating?” 

Daniel makes a noncommittal sound in his throat. “Not really, it’s more complicated than that, and we’re prepared to support each other as business partners and co-parents for the long haul. It’s more like we’re—opening up, I guess. She wanted to try swinging, but I think I’m too old for that.” 

Johnny runs his tongue over his teeth, mind reeling, throat tight. “Swinging—what’s that.” 

“You don’t want to know,” Daniel says before he snorts and takes a swig of his beer, shaking his head. His lashes are so fucking long and dark against his cheek it actually makes Johnny fucking angry so he gnashes his teeth, looks away. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles, because he thinks that’s the right thing to say when someone tells you his wife is on a date with another guy. He’s not sorry, though. There’s a triumphant little twist in his gut where he tucks this knowledge away. A hot wife, like a dirt lot full of cool cars, is another thing Daniel Larusso doesn’t really deserve. Johnny’s stupidly complacent to know he doesn’t actually have one of them. 

“Hey, don't be,” Daniel says, waving a hand through the air loose and easy, like he’s dissipating smoke. “It’s been heading in this direction a long time. We haven’t—well. Let’s just say she deserves a man who can make her happier than I can.” 

Johnny’s whole body is thrumming, vibrating like a muffler of a revved up hot rod. He taps his fingers against his half-empty beer, wondering why finding out that Daniel’s life isn’t as picture-perfect as it seems makes him feel this way—like breaking something. Like whatever they have together is glass-fragile, the ice newly formed over the top of a pond and he could punch through and freeze himself in so fucking easily if he takes a wrong step. “Well,” he says, leaning forward and nodding towards Daniel’s bottle as he holds up his own. “Cheers to fucking shit up with women,” he says. “Another thing we have in common.”

Daniel smiles a watery smile, and they clink bottles before downing what’s left in them, fingers bumping together in a way that Johnny notices. It’s dumb—he spars with Daniel like three times a week for instructional purposes, he touches him all the time, knows the way his deceptively soft, padded torso gives beneath the impact of his own fists, the way Daniel’s _bones_ are shaped, the way his adrenaline sweat stinks. But it feels different with no teenagers watching. Different when it's late and dark and they’re both drinking and neither of them are going home to their empty bedrooms just yet. Johnny coughs down his last warm mouthful of beer, wincing, and as he blinks his eyes open he finds Daniel’s gaze fixed on him, flickering and pitch-black like fucking tar pits. It makes his stomach swoop. “So you and Carmen…not a thing anymore?” Daniel asks. 

Johnny shakes his head. “Not really. I mean—she’s hot. I like her. I thought I loved her, for a second, but I dunno, man, I think I just. It’s weird, with Miguel. I’m trying to, what do they call it. ‘Set Healthy Boundaries’ and shit. So, we called it off. It’s better this way. Cleaner,” he explains, thinking back to how quickly his feelings dried up when he realized how entangled in guilt they were—in his messed up, incurable urge to do right by another family since he managed to wreck his own so fucking good. 

Daniel nods. “I get it.” And then, after a deep sharp breath: “You know—I think I need something stronger than beer. You?” 

Johnny shrugs. He’s always down for something stronger. “What you got?” 

And it turns out there’s a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka in the mini-fridge freezer, and damn, Johnny is pretty sure that’s like, top shelf fancy shit. He thinks Daniel is gonna pull out a shaker and some ice tongs and fucking jar of green olives, but instead he just uncaps the bottle and takes a swig right from the neck before handing it to Johnny with a full-body shudder. “Here,” he says, expression unreadable, swimming, dark. He sways on the spot and instinctively Johnny scrambles to his feet, ready to catch him if he pitches forward. He doesn’t, though, because they’re more alike than Johnny ever remembers, and Daniel knows how to hold his liquor, too. “Please,” Daniel says, waving the bottle around impatiently. “Meet me in the middle here, yeah?” 

Johnny takes a generous sip, and it burns on the way down, clears his sinuses with that perfect, rubbing alcohol burn that always makes him think of first aid-kid cleansing pads. “You’re really fucked up over the Amanda thing, huh,” he says, because that’s _got_ to be what this is. “Don’t blame you, man, I dunno how _I’d_ react if my wife was sucking some other dude’s dick. I’d probably get drunk, too. “ 

“What?” Daniel says, eyes narrowing into glittering slits for a moment as he reels back like Johnny just hit him. “No. That’s not—it’s not that,” he says then, carding a hand through his hair and tugging out his headband in the process. He lets it slither to the ground like a snake before he begins to pace the dojo. “Ok,” he says then, something manic to his voice, sharpening the edges of it so it cuts into Johnny’s skin. He suddenly feels very dizzy as he watches Daniel wheel around with his hands on his hips, the vodka burning in his gut. “I’m gonna ask you something, and you—just. Don’t get mad.” 

And _that_ makes Johnny mad, in and of itself. Daniel can’t tell him what to fucking _do,_ how to feel. “Why are you gonna ask me something that might make me _mad?”_ he snaps, narrowing his eyes and setting down the vodka bottle and tentatively, casually lifting his hands up into home position, just in case. Daniel stares at him like he’s a piece of work. 

“I just—I need to _know,_ because I feel _crazy,_ half the time—are you. Is there something like, _developmentally wrong with you_ that keeps you from seeing what’s _happening_ here? Because. It’s been happening for _thirty five years,_ Johnny, but especially in the last few weeks and I just—”

But Johnny doesn't let Daniel finish, because _fuck_ that guy. He just called Johnny _stupid. Stunted._ So he rounds on him and barrels in with intent, making two fists in the front of his stupid clingy blue under armor and hauling him close. “I thought we were done _fighting_ for real, Larusso,” he growls, backing him into the wall between two lame, fake looking Japanese scrolls. “Why do you want to fight, so bad, huh?” 

Daniel doesn’t hit him, though. He chokes out a breathless laugh, and lays his hands on Johnny's forearms, digging his thumbs, dragging him closer, eyes ink-black as they sweep over his face like he’s looking for something. “I don’t want to _fight,”_ he huffs out, voice low and dangerous. “You aren’t listening to me.” 

Johnny’s mouth is so dry so he tries to lick his lips, aware that he can’t swallow properly because his heart is shoved up the slick tube of his throat and blocking it, thudding there so loud he’s _sure_ Daniel can hear it too. Electricity crackles between them, and he thinks about punching Daniel in the mouth, of the warm wet spread of it splitting under his knuckles, because it’s a comforting thing to think about, every time a man gets close enough he can smell the booze on his breath. It’s his fall back plan. His safety net. “ What the fuck _do_ you want, then, if you don’t want to fight?” he forces out, pulse pounding beneath the firm, cutting pressure of Daniel’s grip. 

Daniel’s eyes flash, his mouth almost smiles before it flickers into something reckless. Then unsticks one of his palms from Johnny’s forearm, and lays it on his traitorous, half-hard dick. 

Johnny’s breath snags, his heart stops. He tries to jolt away but Daniel holds him fast with that other hand, elbow locked and forcing him into place. “I want to get on my knees,” he murmurs, voice a terrified, tremulous, crushable thing. Like egg shells. Like a baby fucking bird. “And suck your cock, Johnny Lawrence.” 

A sob masquerading as a laugh chokes its way up out of Johnny’s disbelieving lips. His legs almost buckle so he presses his brow to Daniel’s to keep himself upright, grinding their skulls together, hands flexing and unflexing around their fistfuls of shirt. If Daniel hadn't said his name—then maybe he’d be ok. Maybe he’d pretend this was the sort of thing guys just _did,_ when they were drunk together, and good at fucking shit up with women. But Daniel _does_ say his name, so it feels personal. It feels like thirty five years of aimless fighting with the boy who _didn't_ ruin his life coming to a head. It feels like the thing he’s been running from finally sniffing him out and hunting him down, and pinning him by the throat. “I—but m’not—“ he murmurs, before he cuts himself off, because he can’t say that word aloud if it’s not an insult directed at another guy whose ass he’s about to kick, or a girly coffee drink, or a TV show with too much hugging, or some stupid pop song on the radio. Otherwise, he hears it in his step-dad’s voice. Kreese’s voice. “I’m not like that,” he ends up saying, even though he knows it’s a lie. He’s known ever since he was eleven and he watched the older boys doing their kick-set drills, stomach clenched at the way their swoopy 70s hair was dark with sweat. He’s known, which is precisely why he’s _needed_ to imagine bloodied mouths under wayward fists. Why he needed the fall black plan. The safety net. 

“Are you sure?” Daniel asks in such a _soft_ fucking voice. He’s kneading Johnny insistently through his sweat pants, feeling his cock out, rubbing it as it twitches and hardens and _shit,_ Johnny can’t help fucking up into the pressure of it, rutting against the heat of his palm. They’re breathing hard and fast through their mouths, sweat and salt and the pure scald of vodka, and before Johnny can talk himself out of it, he’s reaching for Daniel’s jaw, grabbing it punishingly, and slamming him back into the wall. 

Daniel is _such_ a fucking fag about it, he doesn't even fight back. He goes willingly, eyes pupil-black and half-lidded as Johnny thumbs over his mouth. He’s always noticed Daniel’s mouth—back in high school he’d think about him kissing Ali just to make himself sick with jealousy, and now, in this moment, that seems so mortifyingly transparent he wants to punch his seventeen-year-old self’s lights out. “You want to suck my cock?” he asks in a low voice, pushing into Daniel’s mouth where it’s slick and burning with two fingers. “Show me,” he grits out. 

Daniel’s face crumples, his eyes close, _jesus_ he’s so fucking pathetic and wants it so goddamned desperately that Johnny almost feels bad for him. But he can’t feel anything, really, beyond the wild hunger plunging in his gut as he watches Daniel suck his index and middle finger down to the second knuckle, moaning around them, tongue heaven-hot as it laps filthily between the joints. Johnny stares, fucks in and out like his mouth is a cunt, cock _so_ fucking hard as Daniel gropes him through his sweats that its almost too much. “Jesus christ,” he huffs, heart racing, vision whiting out as he bats his hand away. “Stop,” he hisses, wincing. “I’ll come. And I bet you want to swallow it.” 

Daniel pulls off of his fingers in a frothy mess, gasping as he sinks to his knees, cheeks flushed. Johnny thinks he’ll fall over if he doesn’t brace himself against the wall, so he flattens his shaking hands on the golden hardwood as Daniel takes his cock out of his sweats. He wastes _no_ time getting his mouth around it, sucking him deep and desperate like he’s _done_ this before, or at least spent his whole marriage _wishing_ he was doing it. Static explodes behind Johnny’s eyelid and he clenches his jaw, stomach knotting itself up at how fucking _good_ that mouth is nursing at his fat cockhead, how _good_ that palm is, spit-wet and tight as he holds him at the base. _Damn._ Daniel can take him so _deep—_ he wonders if he’s practiced before, tested his gag reflex with a beer bottle like the girls at parties used to do to impress Johnny and his friends. 

He manages to uncement his hand from the wall and make a fist in Daniel’s hair, holding him steady and fucking his face with a few good thrusts before pushing him all the way down, watching through the haze of tears in his eyes with blurry fascination as Daniel gags, but keeps sinking deeper. “God, you fucking love it,” he murmurs in awe, keeping Daniel there, his face stuffed, his eyes watering, his nose pressed into Johnny’s wiry blonde pubes as he harshly breathes in and out. “You love choking on my cock.” 

Daniel actually _nods,_ the motion forcing Johnny to pull his hair a little. That would be world-ending _enough_ of a thing to behold—so shameless so slutty— _but then,_ Daniel actually reaches between his splayed thighs fists his hand down beneath the waistband of his joggers to grab his _own_ cock. Like drooling around Johnny’s feels so fucking good he’s just _got_ to jack off. “Fuck,” Johnny chokes out, keeping Daniel in place as he pistons his hips, fucking his throat rough and deep so his eyes stream. “Take it out. Let me see.” 

Daniel does, and _jesus._ He’s hard and dripping wet, the crown of his cock glistening in the low light as he skims his fingers through and spreads it over his shaft to lubricate each new stroke. Johnny can’t stop staring. This was the exact sort of thing that he’d make himself come thinking about when he was a teenager, before reality came crashing back down and he _swore_ he’d never think about again and managed to effectively train himself out of it. A man on his knees. A man’s mouth on his dick. A man wanting it so goddamned bad he had to touch himself, like he couldn’t help it. “Fucking gorgeous,” he rasps without meaning too, gaze still fixed on the obscene, greedy motion of Daniel’s hand. “So hot for it—hot for having a dick in your mouth. God. Really show it to me. Show me how fucking hard you are, Larusso.” 

He whimpers around Johnny’s cock, lips swollen and puffy as he slides the tight seal of them up and down, tongue lashing. Then he does as he’s told: spreads his thighs wider and angles his hips up to show off his cock, which is red and uncut and so goddamned _needy_ looking Johnny almost wants to suck it, too. “Ah,” is all Johnny manages to say, staggering closer to orgasm as he stares, holds Daniel steady, fucks the plush mess of his mouth with new abandon. 

But then, Daniel pulls off in a sloppy mess before Johnny finishes, eyes wild, spit shining on his chin. “What the hell?” Johnny wheezes, wet cock flexing and bobbing in the air between them, a needy red. “Why would you—”

“You can fuck me,” Daniel says then, voice wrecked and somber and _Jesus fucking christ,_ what the hell is Johnny supposed to do with that. _No I can’t, there’s no way,_ he thinks, but his voice isn't working, he cannot _possibly_ form words right now because Daniel is stripping out of his joggers and kicking them off into a pile before maneuvering onto all fours and spitting in his hand. Then, if thats not enough to fucking kill Johnny, he reachs behind himself to palm open his ass and rub a thick, white fistful of saliva into his winking hole. 

Instead of being horrified, Johnny has to pinch the base of his dick to keep from shooting off all over the dojo mat right then and there. Instead he just stands frozen, chest heaving, eyes locked on the way Daniel is sinking two fingers into his ass and crooking them like he knows _exactly_ how to prep for being stuffed full of cock. “You can pretend I’m a girl, or whatever you need to do it, I don’t care, I just. I want you to fuck me,” he grinds out, voice muffled where his face is hidden in the crook of his own arm. “Please, Johnny.” 

And that makes Johnny _laugh,_ a little, because of course Daniel doesn’t _know_ that so many times he’s fucked girls and imagined something just like this to make it easier. Or else, drank himself blind so he was too fucked up to think about anything. Or else projected himself to the ceiling where colors bended and bodies ceased having shape and pleasure was pleasure and the hugging slick of a pussy around his cock was no different than his own hand. But this—he’s here for it, even if he scares him. Even if he’s spent forty years pretending it wasn’t _exactly_ what he wanted in the ugliest, most shameful corner of himself. “Yeah, you’ll be my girl?” he growls out anyway, getting on his knees and taking his dick in hand, rubbing it between Daniel’s spit wet cheeks and making him cry out as the ridge of the crown snags over his hole. “Some hot babe I picked up at the arcade, a dirty slut who wants it up the ass?” 

“Yeah,” Daniel grinds out as Johnny humps against him, rubbing his palms roughly over the taut flexing muscle of Daniel’s ass, moving dark hair against the grain. It’s so foreign and so _good,_ the sort of forbidden detail he’d focus on whenever he let himself look at 70s speedo ad where a man’s leg’s were showing, the shit he’d pinch himself for thinking about later. “Need it. Need you to take me—to pound my ass so hard,” Daniel mumbles, voice fucked-out and breathless. 

“Oh, she likes it rough,” Johnny hisses, decidedly rucking Daniel’s shirt up to expose his sweat-tacky back, ducking down to mouth up his spine as he takes his cock in hand and aligns it to press inside him. Daniel’s skin smells like sweat and expensive cologne and laundry detergent and Johnny sucks it in, needing every molecule in his lungs, realizing it’s _much_ easier to admit that if Daniel thinks he’s thinking about a girl, instead. “You been dreaming about this all night, babygirl? About how you can’t wait to be bent over and fucked by my big cock?” 

“Yeah. Wore a slutty short skirt just for you. To tease you all fucking night.” 

Johnny tries not to picture it, because he doesn’t want to think about Daniel in a skirt. He wants to think about Daniel just like this, on all fours on the floor of his dojo, thighs tense, cock hard between his thighs as Johnny teases his hot, hungry hole with the tip. He spits in his palm and uses it to make his cock slick, and then, he nudges inside. He’s almost surprised how easy Daniel opens up, pitiful little moans punched from his lips with every inch. _Goddamn._ He's so fucking tight, so burning hot inside, and Johnny licks over the shape of his scapula before fixing his mouth there and sucking possessive mark into the golden brown stretch of his skin. “Such a fucking tease,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut. “God you feel so fucking good, baby,” he groans, and it might be the truest thing he’s said in his entire fucking life. “Such a slut.” 

“Yeah, your little slut,” Daniel chokes out, rutting against the dojo mat in time with Johnny’s first, tentative thrusts, cheeks flushed, hair sweat-slick against his forehead. “You can go harder.” 

“Fuck, _fucking shit,_ ” is all Johnny can manage, losing sight of the role play, the facade, whatever the fuck this thing they're doing is. He’s too busy getting off on the fact that this is _Daniel, Daniel fucking Larusso,_ Daniel who he’s thought about ruining in one hundred different ways but never in _this_ way because he knew, on some level, if he thought about too much, the world might implode in some irreparable way. But he’s thinking about it now—he’s _drowning_ in it. In the hungry, desperate give of his body, the impossible heat of him, the filthy hot way he's rocking back into the cradle of Johnny’s hips each time he slams against his ass, fills him up on the downstroke. The way he _takes it,_ back arched and hole fluttering around the girth of his cock like they’re _made_ to notch together just like this. “God. Gonna come in you. Gonna fill you up.” 

“Fuck, Johnny. Please come in me, put it in me, I need— _ah,”_ Daniel gasps as Johnny fucks balls-deep and empties himself in a series of wild, graceless snaps of his hips. “God, yes, please,” he moans against the mat. 

“Daniel,” Johnny chokes out as he rides the aftershocks, definitely, _definitely_ not thinking about some girl. “Make yourself come on my cock.” 

“Oh my god. Ok,” Daniel murmurs, weight shifting under Johnny’s thudding heartbeat as he arranges himself so that he can take his cock in hand and stroke it, rough and clumsy. It doesn’t take long—Daniel Larusso must _like_ being speared open and full to the point of overflow with hot come, and the thought makes Johnny’s dick twitch inside him, his stomach lurch helplessly at how fucking _hot_ it is. How badly he wants to give him that raw, humiliating truth every goddamned night. 

When Daniel comes his hole flutters tight and wild around Johnny’s cock, milking it dry as he spills onto the mat in helpless bucks. “Fuck, yeah, look at that big load,” Johnny mumbles, and it’s definitely not something he would say to some babe he picked up. And maybe he should feel exposed, but he’s too busy feeling one million other things. Like, happy, for one. Goddamned thrilled. Real, Whole. Himself. He pulls out with a wince and rolls onto his back, reaching for his sweats and trying to pull them on half-assedly before he decides it’s too much work and just lies there, cock still half-hard and flagging against his stomach. He risks looking at Daniel, and immediately regrets it because the sight just makes him want it all over again—he’s dripping come from his ass onto the mat and his cheeks are flushed and there’s a sticky white puddle between his knees and _damn._ It’s filthy and pretty and _exactly_ what he deserves, Johnny thinks. No pretty wife and no pretty cards, just come on his back and come on his front, mouth parted and swollen from being fucked full of dick. It’s a really good look on him. 

“What are you smiling about?” Daniel asks when he glances at Johnny. But he’s smiling, too. 

“How much you _love_ having your ass fucked,” Johnny mumbles, eyeing the mini fridge and wishing he could telekinetically get himself a beer from it. “I think m’getting it, now. What you meant when you said another man might make your wife happier.” 

“Oh, she was plenty happy to fuck me with a plastic dick,” Daniel says nonchalantly, stripping out of his shirt and using it to mop himself up. “But I— I think we both started to want the real thing too badly to keep up whatever we were doing. It ran it’s course” 

“Oh yeah? How do I measure up to plastic?” Johnny asks, heart tripping and leaping as Daniel settles onto his back, close enough their arms touch and their ankles cross. 

“Not bad,” Daniel says. “Could use more practice.” 

“Oh, Fuck you. You were _crying._ Begging for it, Larusso,” Johnny reminds him, turning his head so he can trace over the familiar line of Daniel’s profile with his eyes. But when he shifts he finds that Daniel isn’t staring at the ceiling, he’s staring at _him_ , gaze soft and twinkling, mouth parted a little over a silent gasp. Their lips are less than an inch apart and that just makes Johnny want to kiss him, which, somehow, feels way scarier than fucking his ass, but he knows that’s crazy, so. He thinks about it. About how Daniel’s might taste like vodka and his own cock, and how that wouldn’t be so bad. 

Daniel must catch him staring, because his lashes flutter before he dips in, mouth soft, unassuming like he’s asking a question. Johnny thinks _fuck it_ and answers with his tongue, his teeth. His hand cupped firm as he scours his palm raw on the stubble along Daniel’s jaw, because if he’s doing this, he’s not gonna do it half-way. He’s sick of fall back plans, of safety nets. Daniel rolls up onto his elbow and gives him all he’s got right back, and maybe this is another thing they have in common. The next chapter of that story they keep telling, again and again like a reflex, like a kick-drill, like a fight. Or, maybe it’s the ending to that story--the one they both deserve. 


End file.
